


Poured Out For You

by hanap



Series: 13 Days of Halloween [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale possesses Crowley, Halloween prompt fills, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Whumptober, my best attempt at spooky, written on the heels of watching Hill House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27306088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap
Summary: Today is a special day, the most special day of the year. Crowley delicately polishes a wine glass, places it on the table next to a snow-white napkin in a golden holder. As an afterthought, he lights two candles. Mood lighting, he thinks, and he surveys the scene with satisfaction, a table beautifully set for one.(A prompt fill for racketghost's13 Days of Halloween.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 13 Days of Halloween [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978309
Comments: 35
Kudos: 56
Collections: Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	Poured Out For You

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't let Halloween go by without writing a spooky whump fic. Please mind the tags. Combining some prompts again for this one: possession, haunt, and ritual.

They say this is the day the earth was created. Born out of the dust of the stars, molten at the core, brimming with life on the surface.

On this day every year, Crowley goes through the same ritual. After a long day of preparing food and going on various last-minute errands, he takes a shower, searing his skin with nearly intolerable heat, followed by a careful shave. It calms him to go through the motions, helps him forget his nerves. The outfit he wears on this day is chosen at least three days in advance. This year, it's a black turtleneck sweater, an old-fashioned velvet smoking jacket, the lapels trimmed with paisley in dark red, tailored black trousers, his favourite snakeskin shoes. He takes at least half an hour running his fingers through his hair until it's sculpted to perfection. A few spritzes of an expensive eau de parfum to finish, wood and musk with overtones of citrus, the slightest hint of pepper.

There's a small angel's food cake in the refrigerator, specially ordered from the Ritz, along with a dark chocolate ganache tart – always best to have other options ready, Crowley thinks. Several bottles of a choice cabernet sauvignon were already waiting in the chiller, and a bottle or two of Macallan on hand, just in case. As a surprise, he's purchased a new record player, Mozart's operas and Schubert's symphonies ready upon request.

A gorgeous roast chicken basted with butter that Crowley’s slaved over for most of the day is keeping warm in the oven. Even through his queasiness, he has to admit that it smells delicious. He delicately polishes a wine glass, places it on the table next to a snow-white napkin in a golden holder. As an afterthought, he lights two candles. Mood lighting, he thinks, and he surveys the scene with satisfaction, a table beautifully set for one.

In his flat, there’s a small room that’s kept locked at all times. But today, he turns the key and pushes the door open hesitantly. The room is empty, but there is a small alcove next to the enormous windows. He’s brought one of the candles with him, and on the night of the new moon, its tiny flickering flame is the only source of light. In the mirror in the alcove, he can see his own face, half illuminated in light, half hidden in shadow.

Crowley wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. This is the only time he allows his thoughts to pull him down completely into the darkness of their endless depths, and already he can feel it choking him. He clears his throat and tries to speak audibly.

“I beseech this, that the memory of whom I keep with special reverence…” Crowley says, as clearly as he can manage around the shaking of his voice.

The little flame of the candle suddenly flares high and scorching hot, the jagged corners of Crowley’s face standing out in sharp relief in its light. Crowley freezes as a palpable tremor passes through the room, and for a moment the words are caught tight in his throat. “F-for him who hast been commanded to pass out of this world.” He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes, tries to ignore the harsh vibration of the windows rattling in their frame. “In the resurrection from the dead –”

A sharp cry of shock rips from Crowley’s throat as the windows fly open with a bang, the wind extinguishing the candle, shrouding his face in darkness. He shivers uncontrollably, forcing the words out through the chattering of his teeth. “In the resurrection from the dead,” he repeats loudly, the very floorboards shuddering under his feet, “That I may see him in the land of the living.”

There’s a loud crack of glass shattering and Crowley gasps, and in the same moment, he _feels_ it, a presence in the room hovering behind him, and the back of his neck prickles as something like a touch ghosts against his face. His breath comes shallow and fast, and his heart is pounding so hard he’s beginning to feel lightheaded. “Grant unto me,” he whispers, an inhuman chill settling itself around his shoulders, “The joy of seeing him again, in the glorious light.”

For a split second, Crowley looks at the pitch-black surface of the mirror and sees a face there – streaked with blood down one side, cheeks gaunt and pale as death, empty sockets where there used to be soft blue eyes.

This is the worst part. He stares and stares into the blank void of those eyeless sockets, paralysed with fear, every muscle locked in place. An awful choking taste in his mouth, damp and chalky, the smell of the earth after being assaulted by the rain. A nightmare from which he can’t wake, no matter how he wills himself to move, he can’t move, _he_ _can’t move_ –

Crowley clenches his eyes shut once more and takes deep, measured breaths, forces himself to let go. He allows the cold to seep into his bones, closing like a fist around his heart. There is a strange sort of relief in giving himself over as completely as this, and he feels his consciousness curling up tightly in his own head as the invasive presence takes over, slipping into his body like a hand into a glove.

No, this is no invasion, Crowley thinks dimly, he _welcomes_ this. _My body, given up for you._

His eyes open, but not of his own will – the wind blows gently through the open windows now, and the small flame of the candle is burning cheerily once more. His eyes move up, and the reflection he sees is not his own, but the image of an angel, a cherubic face crowned with a halo of white hair, his beauty distorted only by the large crack that had formed all the way down the middle of the mirror, fracturing his face into two.

Crowley’s lips part, and the muscles of his face rearrange themselves to form what he knows must be an uncharacteristically blinding smile, an expression he’s only seen on an angel’s face. His heart holds too much now, twice as much as it’s accustomed to – perhaps even more, the way the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, and this is the one time of year, the _only_ time he feels truly whole, blazing with life, so fierce it threatens to consume him entirely.

In the mirror, it is the angel that speaks, but it is his own voice that he hears. “Crowley,” he says, his own name leaving his mouth in a sigh of joy, his hand moving up to caress the sharp edges of his own face. “My love. I’ve missed you.”

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY HALLOWEEN, MY DUDES. (I meant to post this on October 21, which was the Earth's birthday in GO. Oh, well.)
> 
> The words Crowley recites in the mirror are from the Catholic prayers for the deceased.
> 
> Thank you to Offgray and my ~anonymous~ beta for reading this, and to Racket's amazing haunted house for all the fun the past few weeks!! [This fic was written in the wake of a convo on día de todos los santos and episodes 8 and 9 of The Haunting of Hill House.]
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


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